There are a few places I avoid, my no-go zones. One of these is under my bed, home to three large plastic storage boxes resting on redundant rollers. I manage to forget about them most of the time. They lie there in a state of permanent hibernation. Occasionally I have been forced to roll out one of the boxes, the small wheels leaving deep tracks in the dust and fluff that has accumulated under the bed over the years. My reluctance to kneel down on the rough sisal carpet and lift the tight-fitting lids is because I know what they contain. Despite the passing of time, I have been decidedly unsuccessful in erasing the memories they bring back to life, like reading old school reports.
The first box contains the remnants of my working life, a collection of all the official reports I produced over thirty or more years as a bureaucrat. A colleague once convinced me that I was making an important contribution to democracy and that my children would be proud of me. In fact, they didn’t care a hoot about my reports or my work, as long as there was food on the table. At first I enjoyed adding shiny new reports to the growing pile in the box under the bed. But over the years, the reports became associated with the unrewarding nature of the work. Memories of the people I had worked with faded away together with their names. The reports often left behind a sense of disturbing emptiness. I carried on regularly lifting the lid of the box to quickly slip in my latest contribution to society right to the end, but seldom with any pleasure or satisfaction. Now it is a long time since the dusty pile of reports was disturbed by any newcomers.
The second box is full of stuff that dreams are made of, of another life, and opening it would painfully remind me of unrealised ambitions. Recently I did have reason to open the box, which I did with some trepidation. The stuff was all still there; the tubes and pots of paint, some clearly dried up, the boxes of drawing pencils and charcoal, the Chinese calligraphy stone and inks, reams of hand-made paper. A huge bunch of brushes of all shapes, sizes and material, many good as new. So soft when brushed across one’s cheek. Stuffed away underneath my gawkish attempts at being creative, together with books and programmes for art training courses. The guitar tutorials are all there too, with the song books, tuning gadgets which I hardly mastered and certificates from guitar lessons. One day, I say to myself, I will get going again – but without conviction.
The final box has a tight blue lid to keep all my secrets out of sight. I open this box so seldom that I have forgotten what secrets it holds. Over the years I have occasionally lifted a corner of the lid to surreptitiously slide in a letter, a worn moleskin notebook full of scribbles or a faded photograph. I close the lid immediately to stop the smell of incense escaping to pollute the house, concrete proof that I have been in my secret box again. I brought the incense with me from India in 1973, a present for a woman who didn’t want it, and since then it has contaminated all my secrets. Sustainable stuff, like the smell of moth balls which pervaded all the bedlinen and clothes I grew up with. A teenager who ran away from a local Hare Krishna commune after living there all her life said that she now vomits when she smells incense. Some of the memories in my incense-drenched box produce a similar sickening feeling.
The walk-in wardrobe is another no-go zone, better avoided. A more adequate name today would be climb-in wardrobe. It is a museum, or rather a chamber of horrors, devoted to displaying the surviving accoutrements of a lifestyle covering several decades. Very little has been discarded, to the dismay- or perhaps joy – of our local charity shop. The few clothes I actually wear hang just inside the door, within easy reach.
In the deep shadows at the far end of the wardrobe, an MI6-style cold war trench coat hangs together with a black leather Gestapo-issue military greatcoat. I remember wearing this at a rugby match on a very wet Saturday afternoon, standing room only. Walking home I got a shock when I saw my reflection in a shop window: a young Hitler copy, black hair plastered across the crown of my head, beard dripping with water and leather great coat no longer so great. It took a week for the coat to dry out, stiff as shoe-soles. It never recovered, but still hangs there. My reasons for buying this monstrosity in the first place are fortunately submerged in the mists of time.
All of the clothes in the wardrobe have a tale to tell, mostly events and places or people I prefer to forget. Coats, overcoats, suits – for winter and summer wear – including at least one woollen three piece pinstripe. What was I thinking of? Shirts which have long passed the vintage stage, and a rainbow collection of shiny silk ties and bulky knitted ones, dangle from a chromium tie-bar, some thin as shoelaces, others the width of an Isle of Man kipper.
Many of the garments have a characteristic odour of being worn once or twice on sweaty occasions and then hung in again. Closer inspection reveals a layer of fine grey powder on the bulging shoulders of darker overcoats and suit jackets, a sign of the times. They hang sadly on broad coat hangers like empty scarecrows waiting to be stuffed with straw. In the corner a pile of dusty, worn black leather Oxfords lie expectantly in wait for Spring funerals.
Situations when I had to dress up for a captive audience come back to haunt me; teaching in Malawi, Russia or China, lecturing to hostile congregations in Sweden, receiving foreign dignitaries and listening to all the hollow greetings and false speeches which such occasions demand. The shiny navy blue suit, pressed every day by staff at the former Vietnamese embassy, now a hotel, in Beijing. The suit still brings out a sweat on my brow when I recall those six-day weeks teaching in China. Standing in front of seventy eager students, writing down my every word, translated by Mr Chu, diligently recorded in their back-to-front symbols. At the back of the classroom, an old tape recorder slowly rotated to capture my words for posterity, while the man in charge lay snoring on a bench.
Fortunately most of the clothes are too small for me to wear, but still hang there on display as if to mock my efforts to look comfortable wearing them. There to remind me of exotic places and near-death experiences. Gradually I have moved the clothes I use out of the wardrobe, so that it becomes an exclusive no-go zone.
The one place I definitely avoid at all costs is fortunately relatively inaccessible. It can only be reached via a narrow ladder which descends with a reluctant scraping noise from a small dark hatch in the ceiling. Slowly climbing the wobbly wooden ladder, cold currents of air smelling of mould, bare wood and stables strike the senses. In the dark my fumbling hand searches for the light switch. The dim rays from a dusty thirty-year old light bulb reveal a large box-like place, with exposed steep roof beams for a ceiling and chicken netting for walls. In the middle it is possible to stand up straight. I shuffle around the narrow corridors slowly, knowing that a sudden careless step and down the hatch I go, head first. In my worst dreams I catch one of my legs on the ladder and hang there upside down like a struggling bat. I never go up there when the house is empty and limit my visits to once a year, at Christmas, to haul out the tree decorations.
The attic holds the debris of many years of family life, stowed away and largely undisturbed. Let sleeping dogs lie, if you don’t want to revive memories of long-forgotten hobbies: half-finished oil paintings, cabinet which once held a collection of bird’s eggs, pedagogic toys politely played with and then pushed aside, shoe-boxes of used postage stamps from exotic countries, two xylophones designed to develop the children’s musical abilities and a dusty old acoustic guitar with rusty strings which never got properly tuned up for the blues.
An inventory, if possible, would note worn out riding helmets, chaps, brushes, whips and other horse gear still smelling of the animals, an old rabbit cage long since abandoned, half empty notebooks with lists of French vocabulary and maths exercises in immature handwriting, bundles of letters and postcards from long-forgotten people round the world, boxes of photographic paper and chemicals left over from an earlier technical generation, ugly souvenirs from trips abroad, cradles, cots, toys and clothes already outgrown by the grandchildren. Redundant sports equipment: worn skis, bent ski sticks, skates, deflated basket balls, damp piles of textiles, mattresses, a giant Victorian-style perambulator, two worn design armchairs, on the for-sale list, and numerous sagging boxes, anonymous or with scribbled labels: kitchen, bathroom, pans, cushions, books, mixed.
Closing the hatch after my annual visit, I feel satisfied that the familiar debris will remain undisturbed until the children claim their dusty inheritance. To cry, laugh, cringe and ponder over before tipping it all in a large skip.